Meteorological Circumstance
by ImpossibleElement
Summary: If you were to ask anyone about Sherlock and John, the answers would inevitably be different between one person and the other, but they would irrevocably have at least one thing in common: every one of them would agree John is a saint for keeping up with Sherlock's hurricane-like nature.


**Meteorological Circumstance**

If you were to ask anyone about Sherlock and John, the answers would inevitably be different between one person and the other, the theories would vary depending on who is replying, and the remarks would have a changing range of hostility and aggressiveness with which they are delivered that's tightly bound with the degree of animosity the person you are inquiring has with the two of them -namely Sherlock- but they would irrevocably have at least one thing in common: each and every one of them would agree that John is a saint for keeping up with Sherlock's hurricane-like nature. However, there is an exception to every rule; and, as usual, our favourite detective is the one who should be said irregularity.

It isn't like he doesn't agree that the blogger has remarkable endurance towards his antics, and that he probably deserves a medal for accepting what would normally be called "unusual behaviour". He also is willing to admit his personality is possibly the furthest from stable that there is; but one analogy he is certain is wrong in every sense of the word is referring to him as the hurricane, when in reality, John is the one who is proving to Sherlock time and time again how alike to a weather phenomenon he can be.

Maybe his character is not exactly identical to that of a storm, yet that is most definitely the only thing with which the detective can conjure to compare the effect his presence has on the scientist's life. Sherlock has often found that his blogger's sole existence near him could leave him in utter damnation. Destroyed parts the only thing that would remain of him if the cyclone that was John Watson decided to rush over him.

He started noticing this once at a crime scene. Firing off deductions up and down, and everyone else was just attempting to catch at least part of them. He swirled around in his coat and made the string of words a music to which he appeared to be dancing in the spot, and everything was great. Then, he turned around and caught John staring at him with admiration and something akin to awe in his eyes, and just like that, everything was lost for the detective. He forgot all the progress with the case he had made, and stuttered over his words like a lost child and got caught up in the worst and only hurricane in London's history.

It's not as if the doctor has any intentions of making his flatmate behave like that. It's just a reaction that said detective has started to develop against the full force of his friend's impact. Because every time he looks at the face of John Watson, or even thinks about some inane habit he does that should be far more annoying that it really is, his brain begins to clog up with heavy clouds full of rain and all logical thought seems to get washed away by the precipitation. So much he feels like he may just leak raindrops from the sheer pressure the sentiment provoked on him when it landed.

Once he realised this, the knowledge made keeping a focused mind and detached heart even more difficult. He was just swept off the ground by the charming personality his flatmate possessed, and any attempt he could make to stop himself for being sent flying always ended up with him swirling through the air in a tornado so unassuming yet so powerful that would have put Oz's cyclone to shame.

He tried. He really, genuinely tried. But no matter how many precautions he always took -boarding the windows and doors, locking all his prized and new emotions away, even hiding in the cellar- the strong draught kept banging them down, demanding for entrance. Threatening the inevitability of tearing him apart limb by limb. And he would hold the fort with tooth and nail as long as he was able, until John Watson chose that moment to look at him and smile, then caution was thrown to the wind and he let the dangerous tempest rush inside again.

His situation got worse, and he was rendered unable to control his feelings. They would show up at inconvenient moments, and he was lost, confused in the daze the spiralling wind provoked. Life spinning relentlessly around him. Because, of course blue skies could never last forever, and the clouds that had formed confirmed that of which everybody had warned him and he hadn't cared to listen. Now he wished he had.

He was out on the street on a John-less night, trying to make sense of the weather around his mind, arguing with his innermost thoughts, when he saw it. Something that he never believed would pierce him as much as it did: John was inside a pub chatting up a girl. The collision of reality and condemnation hitting against his already fickle doubts had him reeling with hopelessness. When he saw the object of his affections get his wallet out to pay and turned to his companion to say a goodbye, the detective braced himself for the impact, because he knew that if his friend kissed her -which was the most probable scenario- the lighting would hurt as nothing ever had.

At the end of the day, he refused to let himself watch the confirmation of his fears unfold in front of his eyes, so he closed them. When he opened them again he saw John watching him through the suspiciously un-shattered glass of the window. The pain must be written across his face quite clearly, because he saw realisation centre in the soldier's face. His friend surely had to know now; if he didn't before, and the next logical step would be to leave. To distance himself from the weird man with his unwanted affections flung towards him.

He ran to their flat and slammed the door upon entering. He divested himself of the clothes he was wearing and aggressively exchanged them for his usual lounging attire. The rain was falling heavily onto the roof of the building like it had for quite a few months now. Yet he was still taken aback to learn that his constant companion had left him to bear the hurricane alone, as he will probably do from now on.

He flung himself on the sofa, laying stiffly on his back. Watching the ceiling like a man possessed. He saw no reason to draw the curtains closed since outside, the sun had given up a long time ago, as had his heart now. Trying to stop painful and dangerous memories from flooding back and slipping into the fortress he was trying to build against the worst meteorological phenomenon he had experienced. Positioning containers to catch any stray reminiscer that could leak through to neutralise them later. He honestly couldn't care less if the blogger disapproved of his litter, since he wouldn't be around much longer to see it.

He was angry, completely raging against his selfish flatmate who couldn't even bear to be here to at least see what he had done. The drizzle filling the silence was threatening to drive him more insane than he already was; falling slowly, dripping and dropping in staccato, about to tear the last of his sanity to flying pieces, and he couldn't stand it anymore.

The shelter he had against the emotions was gone, and there was nothing to prevent the monsoon from carrying him to his own demise. He was past all hope, or at least he thought he was; until he heard a loud thunder that suspiciously sounded like a door. He readied himself for the worst, the inevitable way that the downpour that was John Watson would hit him.

His doctor appeared in front of him. Sherlock moved his sight to see him, waiting for the storm which would mean losing his best friend to come, but it never did; in retrospective, it probably never was. Said doctor took a throughout look at the prone figure on the sofa and after a few moments, smiled. Confusion burst through the veins of the detective, but before his could voice out his question his legs were being gently shoved aside to make room for his blogger to land in the couch cushion next to him.

"Don't worry, 'Lock." The soft patter of his voice said. "That's over now." And the fierce precipitation outside seemed to actually stop at those words. He was fine, he was alive. He had actually survived the cyclone. They stayed silent for the rest of the night, and neither talked of it again. For the self-declared sociopath the sun came and went, making way for the rain at times, yielding against the air which was getting colder with each day, letting him know he should be taking new precautions, for he was just standing in the eye of the storm, and it would soon come to get him once more.

He had already gathered provisions, and he would be ready for when the tornado landed. But when the time actually came, he did the exact opposite than what anyone would have thought would be the smarter option.

The wind came rushing inside. Aggressively ripping everything in its path. Shattering every window, every door, every memory of what his life was before he met John Watson. Everything: just blown away. And he realised he didn't particularly mind.

He went to stand outside, and the current grabbed him quickly. Picking him up in its spiralling. He found that no walls could protect him of his flatmate's might. That as long as he was still "Sherlock" and John was still "John" there wouldn't ever be anything between him and the storm. And he actually felt fine, floating around in its spin. Not knowing when he was going to be dropped.

Nothing could save him now, nothing could ever stop the control such force had on his complete being, on his entire life. Along with everything else, he just let himself get blown away. Just him, at mercy of this hurricane.

SSSSSSS

Author's note: If you liked it, check out my other stories.


End file.
